


Hel's Tincture

by SylvanFreckles



Series: Whumptober 2019 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Branding, Castiel is cared for, Demon Blood, Gen, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Purgatory Headcanon, Skittles, Torture, Whumptober 2019 sequel, leviathan (mentioned), major Cas whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:14:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles
Summary: (Formerly "Recovery")When Cas is kidnapped by witches attempting to summon a deadly foe from his past, Sam and Dean rescue him only to then face the challenge of helping him recover from the injuries he sustained. But between the demon blood and the remnants of the spell, nothing is going smoothly. Something is blocking Castiel's powers, and if they can't figure out the source they might not save their angel.(Sequel to Whumptober 2019 day 28: Beaten (Cas). Now includes that chapter as the first chapter, the sequel begins with chapter two)
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Whumptober 2019 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1550827
Comments: 22
Kudos: 101





	1. Wumptober 28: Beaten (Cas)

**Author's Note:**

> Finally here! I've been working on this for a while, and when I realized I was over 5000 words and hadn't even finished two-thirds of the story it was time to divide it into chapters. It isn't entirely finished, but it shouldn't take too long (maybe not a Thursday-Friday-Saturday post but I hope to finish within a week). 
> 
> If you haven't read my Whumptober 2019 fic, you should probably at least go read chapter 28 before trying to read this. It will make a lot more sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just chapter 28 of Whumptober 2019 (Supernatural). No new content, no grammar or spelling corrections, nothing like that. Just literally that chapter copy-pasted here for ease of reading (as suggested by anonymous user 213).

The hood over his head, combined with the angel cuffs on his wrists, blocked out every sensation except sound as Castiel was lead deeper and deeper into the forest.

Word had gotten around, it seemed. There was an angel near Lebanon Kansas, when those were rare to find. And there were still enough practitioners of the old blood magics that he was apparently worth a great deal.

“As promised, Ophelia,” his captor shoved Castiel forward, an exposed tree root tripping him.

“Bind him to the altar,” a woman commanded—presumably Ophelia.

“Wait,” Castiel tried to protest, though his voice was muffled by the sack. “You don't want this. Whatever you want to summon with my blood, it won't be worth the cost.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” Ophelia nearly loomed over him as strong hands bound his arms to a section of rough board fencing. His hood was pulled off, and he found himself look up into her face, dark eyes glittering, skin so pale it was nearly translucent. “The ones I've communed with are ecstatic about seeing you again.”

Castiel twisted, trying to follow her progress as she walked behind him, but one of the men who'd tied him to the altar forced his head around and cut straight through his clothing, neck to waist, peeling it open to lay his back bare.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of blood!” Ophelia intoned, then the whistle of a whip broke the air just before the metal tips on the braided lashes broke the skin of his back.

* * *

Again and again, she whipped him until his blood soaked through his waistband and flowed down his legs. Then he was hauled off the altar and turned around, his torn and bloody back pressed into the rough wood.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of agony!”

One of the men approached, a heavy hammer and a railroad spike in his hand. Castiel fought against the ropes that held him, kicking out to knock the spike away. A burst of adrenaline overcame the pain for a moment, and he managed to snap the plank of the altar he was bound to.

Ophelia shrieked and lashed out again, the whip catching Castiel across the face. The tips of the whip were celestial alloy dipped in demon blood, particularly unpleasant.

The other man, the one who didn't have the railroad spike, charged Castiel with a roar and tackled him to the ground, the impact jarring the wounds in his back and making him cry out in pain. The man pummeled his face and chest, his considerable strength heightened by Enochian brass knuckles.

(Though Castiel did not understand how a witch could have gotten hold of such things, as the Men of Letters weren't free with their knowledge and technology.)

One eye nearly swollen shut, and several ribs bruised if not broken, Castiel was finally overpowered and his wrists pinned together, the anti-angel cuffs snapping back around them.

“We'll have to improvise,” Ophelia complained. “We can't crucify him with his hands together. Just put him on the hook, I'll see what we can do about the ritual.

Castiel was hauled to his feet, the world graying out a little as his body sang with pain, and the witch's assistant manhandled him over to a post where a hook jutted out just high enough that Castiel would have to stretch to stay on his feet.

“I think we could still find a way to nail you up.” the man sneered in his ear, swiftly cutting away the tattered remains of Castiel's shirt and coat. “The mistress'll figure it out, and she'll bring our masters back.”

They left him hanging, the position agonizing on his injured ribs, the rough wood of the post digging into his back whenever he tried to rest his aching legs. He leaned back to try to see the sky through the break in the clearing, maybe find a hint of his Father's creation out there, but the moon was new and the clouds were heavy. The only light in the clearing was from the fire near the center, and Castiel tried not to look at it after he'd noticed the pokers and branding iron resting in the coals.

“I have it!” Ophelia announced. “The sacrifice of agony has to represent death but not be death itself. Winston?”

The first man, the one who'd been holding the hammer and spike, unfolded his arms with a lazy grin. “Demon blood's pretty bad for an angel,” he offered. “We got a whole jar of that.”

Ophelia squealed with delight, as Winston picked up a jar with a dark red liquid.

Castiel clamped his mouth shut and turned away, but the second man was right beside him, clamping one hand around his jaw and forcing him to face Winston.

The unnamed man planted a fist in Castiel's stomach, then in his broken ribs, over and over until the angel gasped in pain and Winston could wedge the edge of the jar between his lips.

Castiel tried to turn away, to force the blood out, to not swallow, but his captors were relentless. The blood in the jar seemed endless as the second man beat him, until he nearly choked on the noxious liquid and was forced to swallow.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of agony!” Ophelia practically crowed, and now Castiel could see she had five fat candles, two of them now lit on an altar cloth painted with a Nordic compass.

He writhed and coughed, vomiting up a mouthful of the demon blood before Winston clapped a hand over his mouth. “Keep it in,” the man hissed.

“The sacrifice of flesh and sacrifice of bone should be easy,” Ophelia commented. “You wanted to do that, right, Phillips?”

The second man, Phillips, leered into Castiel's face. “I think I've had a good practice run,” he whispered, running the back of his hand down the angel's face so that the Enochian knuckles brushed over the bruises and split skin.

“Well, one at a time,” Ophelia said breezily. “Don't forget the hammer.”

Phillips grinned, tugging Castiel's wrists off the hook and spinning him around so he was face-first in the dirt. The man straddled him, knees on either side of the angel's hips, and Castiel felt the flat of a knife blade slide gently along the wounds on his back.

“Taking the flesh first,” Phillips called, then the knife dug into the wounds left by the whip and the world went dark around him.

* * *

He came to when the hammer shattered his ankle. Castiel cried out and tried to fight off the hands holding him down, but Winston had pinned his arms beneath one knee and had one broad palm resting over two of his broken ribs.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of bone.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw the fourth candle flare to life, and Ophelia gave a little happy sigh.

She knelt beside him, carding her fingers through his hair. “You've given us such a gift, Castiel. I never would have thought I could get an angel, much less the one they want! My masters will return and all will be as it should again.”

Ophelia stood up and walked to the fire, pulling out the branding iron Castiel had seen before. Now he could see that its tip was a Vegvisir, a Nordic compass.

The symbol of Purgatory.

They were summoning the Leviathan.

“Whatever you're doing,” he gasped out. “It's not what you want. They're not like that.”

“My masters are the darkness and hunger and the champions of all who stand against the ways of this world,” Ophelia declared. “They will bless me for releasing them, and doubly so for using you.”

No. He twisted against the hands holding him, though his wounds and the demon blood had weakened him. Ophelia was drawing closer, the brand held high in her hands.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of covenant!”

“No!”

A shot pierced the night air, and Ophelia toppled sideways with a scream. Castiel could hear footsteps thundering into the clearing, the familiar shouts of his brothers as they came to his rescue.

“Sam!” Castiel craned his neck to see the younger Winchester closest to the altar. “The candles! You have to break the altar!”

Ophelia shrieked, climbing to her knees with the brand in hand and falling forward to drive the hot metal into Castiel's skin. He arched against it and screamed as the heat and pain and remnants of the spell tore through his body, but Sam had been fast enough.

The little wooden altar had been kicked apart, candles scattered across the clearing.

The witch charged Sam, hands raised in claws, but her body jerked as the hunter fired several more rounds into her body.

“Cas!” Dean slid to his knees beside the angel, Winston and Phillips' bodies behind him. “Dammit, what did she do to you?”

“Leviathan,” Castiel grunted as he was eased up to lean against Dean's shoulder. “Sh-she wanted...wanted....”

“Hey, slow down,” Sam was there, too, tugging his flannel shirt off to wrap around Castiel like a blanket. “Dean, we've gotta get him out of here. That burn on its own is bad news, I think she had holy oil on the brand.”

“Yeah, Cas, can you stand?”

The angel nodded, though his body had started shaking as the realization of what had almost happened coursed through him.

He let Dean pull him to his feet, but his knees collapsed and the hunter caught him, swearing. “Sammy, I think his foot's broken, see?”

“A-ankle,” Castiel stammered.

Dean swore again. “Sammy, get the car as close as you can.”

Castiel heard the keys being tossed to the younger Winchester, but he was so focused on trying to keep himself upright he was surprised when Dean tried to lower them both to the ground.

“Hey, man, just relax,” Dean rubbed Castiel's arm, encouraging him to lean into the hunter. “You've been beaten half to shit and I think you're going into shock. Leviathans, man. That's messed up.”

He rested his head against Dean's shoulder, trying to find a comfortable position that wasn't pushing or pulling on any wounds. The cuffs around his wrists had torn his skin raw, and he was a little glad the Winchesters weren't trying to get them off just yet.

There would be time for that, when they were safe.

“Here she comes,” Dean murmured as the Impala's headlights cut through the darkness. “Don't worry, buddy, we'll get you home.”

Castiel just nodded, letting the Winchesters lift him up and tuck him in the backseat, Sam following to work on the cuffs and do some preliminary first aide as Dean slid behind the wheel to take them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter is in the works as I updated this, I solemnly swear. Then the new tag for "skittles" will make sense.


	2. Recovery: Day One

Sam braced himself as the Impala jostled over another bump in the road. He would have snapped at Dean, told him to go slower, but they didn't know how many more witches might be out here.

Cas hadn't moved since they'd packed him in the car. He was curled up with his back to the door, his face buried in the seat back, his hands in Sam's as the younger Winchester tried to pick the lock on the angel-proof handcuffs.

The angel was still wearing in Sam's flannel, his own shirt and coats having been shredded by the witches that kidnapped him. Cas was covered in bruises from head to toe, his back had been laid open by a multi-tailed whip, and there was a horrible burn from a branding iron shaped like a Nordic compass low on his ribcage, just above and to the left of his belly button.

“Damn. Sorry, Cas,” Sam hissed as the lockpick in his hand slipped. These weren't the same cuffs the Men of Letters had. These were more like old-fashioned manacles, the angel-proofing sigils intermittent with Nordic runes across the rough surface of the cuffs. Not impossible to pick, but the lock was just different enough to give Sam trouble.

Cas's skin under the manacles was torn and bloody and far, far too hot. Like he was burning with fever, though Sam wasn't sure if that was from his injuries or some part of the spell.

One manacle clicked open and Sam let out a sigh of relief. “Just one more,” he murmured, giving Cas's hand a short squeeze. His knuckles were torn and bloody from trying to fight his way out, and his arms up to just above his elbows were bruised from the men who'd been holding him down.

Cas made a strangled sound and tried to twist in his seat, reaching for the handle of the door.

“Dean!” Sam grabbed at Cas's arm, trying to pull him back. Dean was already steering the car off the road, stopping just in time as Cas twisted out of Sam's grip and opened the door, all but collapsing out of the car to retch into the dirt.

Dean was out of the car in an instant, looping one arm gently across Cas's chest to give the angel something to lean against, rather than trying to hold him up and risk damaging his already-battered body. Sam got out and dug a bottle of water out of the trunk, then walked around to where his brother was propping up Cas.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam began, holding the bottle out, then took a sharp step back as the _smell_ hit. “D-dean?”

His older brother glanced up, face twisting in concern. “Sammy?”

“That's, uh,” Sam swallowed and looked away. “That's demon blood.”

He didn't crave it anymore when he smelled it, not really. It still brought up some unpleasant memories and then it was like every bad choice he'd ever made was on display.

Dean swore. “Did you drink it?”

Sam couldn't quite stop the flash of hurt and irritation, even though he knew Dean wasn't asking him that after all these years. He turned back in time to see Cas's slight nod and his stomach tightened..

Dammit. That couldn't be good for an angel. That was probably why he was burning up.

“Yeah? Much more than this?”

Cas nodded again. He shuddered, sliding sideways until he was resting against Dean. “I can't...can't get it all out,” he whispered hoarsely.

Sam grimaced. He stepped over the blood and crouched down to offer Castiel the bottle of water. “Anything we can do?”

The angel rinsed his mouth out, then took a slow sip from the bottle. He shook his head, letting Dean ease him back up to sit more comfortably. “Let it burn.”

Well. That sounded awful. “How bad is it?”

Cas had rested his head against the back of the seat, manacles still dangling off one wrist. “Not fatal,” he whispered. He seemed to be having trouble staying awake.

That could still be pretty bad.

Dean rested one hand on Cas's knee, grimacing at the blood that had soaked through the thin fabric of his pants thanks to wounds on his back. “You good to get moving again? You'll be a lot more comfortable if we can get you to a bed.”

Cas nodded, letting Dean help him shuffle around in the seat to tuck his feet in. His legs, at least, seemed free of serious injury other than his broken ankle, though Sam wouldn't be surprised if they were bruised.

“Cas?” Sam held his hand out, and the angel reluctantly offered his manacled wrist. “Sorry, this won't take long.”

While Sam was picking at the lock, Dean scuffed some dirt over the blood Cas had vomited up. Then he pulled his phone out, the light from the screen casting shadows on his face as he scrolled through something. “Looks like one of Rufus's old cabins is about two hours away,” Dean offered. “Or we can go to a hotel, town's like ninety miles from here.”

The manacles finally broke free, and Sam tossed them to the footwell away from Cas. “What do you think?” he asked the angel. The cabin would offer more privacy, but the closest town had an old-fashioned herbalist's shop where they could get fresh supplies if they needed anything.

“Home,” Cas whispered, turning on the seat so that his back was to Sam.

The shirt Cas was wrapped in was soaked through with blood, and the younger hunter looked over to his brother and shook his head.

“Buddy,” Dean climbed back in the driver's seat to lean over the back and talk to Cas. “We're in nowhere, Ohio...home is twelve hours away.”

Cas shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself above the burn. “H-hotel.”

“Awesome,” Dean patted Cas's shoulder before turning back around to start the car again. Sam hurried back to his side and slid in next to Cas, carefully draping a blanket over his friend. He had hoped getting the manacles off would kick-start Cas's healing, but it looked like something else was blocking it.

“Cas?” Sam paused with his hands on the angel's shoulders.

Cas shook his head. He let his head rest against the seat back and closed his eyes. Sam gave his shoulders a slight squeeze before backing off and just letting his friend get some rest.

* * *

The Riverside Motel was three low buildings in a horseshoe around a pool (covered up for the colder weather). Single story, with all rooms facing either the parking lot or the pool. Sam managed to get them into a room at one of the ends of the horseshoe by claiming his brother had gotten sick while traveling and they needed as little noise as possible.

“Here we go,” Dean murmured, practically carrying Cas from the car to the room. Castiel hadn't healed at all, not even with the manacles removed, and Dean was half tempted to take him to a hospital.

Except that he'd obviously been tortured and branded with an occult symbol. There was no way around that. They couldn't claim mugging or animal attack when he'd had the shit beaten out of him in an attempt to summon the Leviathan.

The Leviathan. Dean shuddered, depositing Cas on one of the king-sized beds. Of all the nightmares from their past, it had to be the gross ones. He'd never forget that _smell_.

“I think I need to head back to the ritual site,” Sam commented, dropping their bags on the other bed. “We need to make sure no one else can use that summoning.”

Well, wasn't that a pleasant thought. “You sure you'll be okay with the drive?” It was so late at night it was officially early morning, but the thought of someone else getting their hands on a spell like that was sickening.

“Yeah,” Sam shrugged. “By the time I get back the herbalist's shop will be open, you can text me if you need anything.” Dean nodded, tossing the keys to his brother. They had all gotten closer over the years, but Cas still had his moments when he was more comfortable alone with Dean. So even though Dean still hated sending his brother out alone, it was probably better if Dean was the one left to tend to an all-too-vulnerable angel.

He let the door close behind Sam, then stopped for a moment to study Cas. He was still wrapped in the blanket Sam had tucked around him in the car, his face ashen except for a flush in his cheeks. His left eye was swollen shut, blood crusted around his nose, and for a second Dean had an awful flashback to the Mark of Cain.

But that wasn't helping Cas now. Dean dragged the chair out from the room's little desk and sat down in front of Cas, waiting until the angel looked up to acknowledge him.

“Hey, buddy,” he said softly, reaching for the folds of the blanket. “We need to get you cleaned up, okay?”

Cas nodded, letting him take the blanket away. He was still wearing Sam's shirt, and as Dean helped him ease it off his shoulders it stuck to the wounds in his back. Cas hissed between his teeth as Dean prodded at the stuck places.

“Looks like it just dried there,” Dean commented. “Hang on, I'll get something to soak it off.”

He grabbed the ice bucket and filled it about two-thirds of the way with warm water, snagging some towels and wash cloths from the bathroom on his way back to the bed. Cas was just staring down at his hands, the shirt still hanging off his shoulders, but he managed to look up at Dean when the hunter sat back down.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean sighed, more out of sympathy than irritation, as he leaned over to press a wet cloth against one of the stuck parts of the shirt. It seemed like every time he looked he noticed a new injury—Cas hadn't said anything about broken ribs, but there was some obvious swelling on his side along with the kind of bruises that came from internal bleeding.

Maybe he had been healing but his body was just so damaged it couldn't do everything.

The shirt finally pulled free, starting one of the wounds on Cas's back bleeding again. Dean swallowed, looking away for a moment to toss the shirt in one corner. It wasn't enough that they'd whipped him, one of those sick bastards had taken a knife to Cas's back. They'd torn into him with a serrated blade, carving their name into Cas like a sick trophy.

Dean would never regret gunning those two bastards down.

“Dean?”

He sat back, reaching for the water and a clean cloth. “Yeah?”

“I'll heal...when the demon blood burns out.”

Dean shook his head, moving around to sit behind Cas to start sponging away the dirt and dried blood. “Not good enough, pal. Not just gonna dump you in a corner until you're all better.” There were bits of detritus in the wounds, too...twigs and leaves and crap like that, from where they'd held him down on the ground for that bitch to brand.

The angel sighed, flinching a little as Dean probed at one particularly nasty welt. Some of these cut through nearly to the bone. “Dean?”

“Hey,” Dean leaned around, resting a hand against Cas's shoulder. “Let us help you, okay?” Damn, Cas's temperature was already skyrocketing. He obviously hadn't been exaggerating about the demon blood _burning_ out.

Cas finally nodded and his body slumped even further, as though he'd been trying to hold himself up on sheer stubbornness alone. Dean gently patted his friend on the shoulder and turned his attention to the wounds on his back.

* * *

“ _To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of covenant!” Ophelia thrust the brand down, searing the Nordic sigil into Castiel's flesh. The angel screamed, arching against the hands holding him down as the spell dug its way into his grace. It was like his vessel was being crystalized from the inside out, the heat of the demon blood mixing with the sick_ wrongness _of Purgatory._

_Voices were clamoring inside his head. He thrashed against the men holding him, their hands suddenly claws hooked into his flesh to pin him to the spot._

_And the brand..._

_Castiel focused on the bright red burn on his chest, horrified to see the clean lines from the branding iron filling with a viscous black liquid. It soon overflowed the branding mark and streamed down his sides, pooling on the earth beneath him._

_The Leviathan were coming. They were tearing their way through between worlds, using his body as a gateway. He threw his head back and screamed as light pierced his body, a screaming tangle of darkness erupting from the brand on his chest. He could only scream and writhe as one after another the Leviathan poured out onto the earth again._

_Then one was slithering up Ophelia's legs, and though the witch screamed she was consumed by the Leviathan's hunger, until the Leviathan stood before them in the witch's form._

_It canted its head to one side, studying Castiel with an air of satisfaction. “Hello again, angel,” the Leviathan purred. “You have no idea how much we've missed you.”_

“Cas!”

Castiel snapped awake, fighting to throw off the hands that held him down. If the Leviathan had returned, he had to warn Sam and Dean somehow. He couldn't be the only one the creatures were after; the Winchesters had been on their list as well.

“Don't do this, man,” someone pleaded. “Dammit, get his wrists.”

“They're tearing open, Dean.”

“Yeah, better that than he pull his guts out or something!”

Castiel forced himself to still, hands still hooked into claws. Shuddering, he forced himself to focus on the faces above him. “S-Sam?”

The younger Winchester looked relieved. “Hey, Castiel. You had a nightmare.”

Dean snorted. “Ya think? You kept digging at that brand, man.”

The angel shuddered, wanting to check the burn the witch had left on him but still restrained by the Winchesters. “Leviathan?”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “We stopped the ritual, remember? I broke the altar, then I went back and made sure everything was destroyed.”

“Except their book,” Dean interjected, helping Castiel sit up when the angel start trying to push himself up. “That's getting tossed in the incinerator when we get home, no way anyone's reconstructing the ashes or whatever.”

Castiel tried to nod, but a wave of dizziness and nausea struck and he had to keep himself still to stay upright. He hadn't actually seen the book Ophelia had been using, but just the thought of it brought his mind back to dark skies and firelight and rough hands holding him down while the brand descended...

“Cas!”

He jolted, brought back to the present by Dean's voice. The firelight of the clearing receded into the small table lamp next to the bed, the starless sky the texture ceiling of the motel room. “Dean?”

The older hunter tried to smile, but half-turned away to rub one hand over his face. “Dammit.”

“You keep flashing in and out,” Sam explained. He'd moved from holding onto Castiel by the forearm to holding his hands, rough thumbs rubbing gently over the angel's bruised knuckles. “Your temperature is pretty high.”

Castiel looked down at his hands, watching blankly as Sam's thumb moved back and forth. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, voice rough from what must have been screaming in his nightmare.

Dean swore again and pushed himself away from the bed to stalk to the other side of the room. Castiel stared after him in confusion, then back at Sam, relieved a little when the younger Winchester offered a slight smile and a half-shrug. “It's not your fault. You said the demon blood would burn itself out, is that the fever?”

Castiel nodded. Heavenly wars had taken on an ugly turn when demons learned their own blood was an effective poison against angels. Not deadly—at least not in the amount he'd consumed—but very, very painful.

The older Winchester was walking back now, ice bucket in his hands and a towel draped over his arm. “What about that tea, Sam?”

“Oh!” Sam gave Castiel's hands a gentle squeeze before releasing them to hurry across the room and dig through a paper bag. “I stopped at a few shops on my way back this morning,” he called over his shoulder as Dean took his place and started wiping the sweat off Castiel's forehead and neck with a cold, wet towel. “I don't know if it will help but one of them had this purifying tea. They had a hunters' sign in their window, so it actually has some strong stuff in it.”

Castiel had closed his eyes, but he opened them to watch Sam place a mug in the microwave. “I don't need human remedies,” he whispered.

Dean snorted. “Just try it, okay?” Though his voice was rough, his actions were gentle. “You're not healing, Cas.”

Reluctantly, Castiel nodded. There was nothing, in Heaven or on Earth, that could counteract demon blood poisoning, but he did not have the energy to fight his friends over this. It wasn't just the demon blood, either, there was something else pulling at his vessel. The remnant of the spell, perhaps, or some magic tied to the sigil branded into his skin.

He accepted the mug from Sam, appreciating that at least the tea smelled nice even if it would do nothing. Castiel took a sip, keeping his focus on the dark liquid in the mug as he felt both brothers staring at him.

As predicted, it did nothing, even when he had drained the mug and passed it back to Sam.

Dean broke the silence with a sigh and the return of the cold cloth to the back of Castiel's neck. “We'll figure something out, Cas.”

If anyone could, of course, it would be the Winchesters.


	3. Recovery Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two! Body horror, grossness, and headcanon abound!

Sam held up Cas's dress pants with a critical eye, studying the dried blood. Cas could fix them when he got his powers back, but they'd already been in this motel for almost twenty-four hours with no sign of that happening and the brothers had been talking about getting back on the road soon.

In the end they'd had to stitch the worst of the wounds on Castiel's back as well as wrap his ribs, though the burn on his abdomen wasn't responding to any kind of human treatment. It was still raw and hot to the touch and it seemed like every time Sam turned around Cas was digging at it again.

He stuffed the pants in the bag with his own fed threads—the bunker actually had a dry cleaning machine in the massive laundry room, so the bloodstains wouldn't be a problem. Yes, Cas could clean them up when he got his mojo back, but it wouldn't hurt if they were cleaned the old-fashioned way. Sam glanced at the next bag, sneaking a peak at his sleeping brother before opening it up to check the contents.

The “Cas Bag”. He didn't know when Dean first packed it or started keeping it in the trunk. It had started with just a clean dress shirt, some casual clothes, and a set of pajamas but had expanded over the years. There were extra pajamas, for one. Two henleys, one from a store and one hand-me-down from Dean. One of those faux-vintage T-shirts with a Led Zeppelin album cover. Cas had worn the pajamas a few times, when he was seriously injured, but Sam had never seen him even look at the other items in the bag.

Cas's restless movements brought Sam out of his thoughts. The angel didn't seem to actually be sleeping, just kind of stuck halfway between awake and asleep. He didn't seem to be flashing back to the clearing any more, at least, so there was some progress. But not nearly enough.

Sam lowered himself into the chair at Cas's bedside, shooting another glance at Dean. The older Winchester was stretched out on the other bed, on top of the blankets, still fully dressed down to his boots. They'd been sleeping in turns, and Sam had insisted Dean take the last few hours with the hope that they'd be on the road in the morning.

As Cas moaned again and shifted on the bed, deep shudders running through his body, Sam resigned himself to spending another day here.

It wasn't that staying here was such a bad thing, they had just been hoping Cas would be better by now. He healed so quickly from everything, Sam had assumed demon blood would burn out of an angel's body faster than out of a human's. That Cas would just snap back to normal after a few hours' sleep, even if he then had to live with Dean's mother-henning until the older hunter decided Cas was healed enough to go out on his own again.

“Sam?”

Sam mustered up a smile at his friend's tired voice. “Hey. How're you feeling?” He dipped a clean towel in the ice water and wrung it out, placing the cold cloth on Castiel's forehead. The angel shuddered again, but seemed to lean into the coldness.

“Hot.”

Sam winced in sympathy. “Yeah, I bet it doesn't feel too good.” When the tea had proved useless they'd started just trying to cool Cas down, and to get him to drink enough water. If his mojo was on the fritz he was probably susceptible to other mortal things—like dehydration.

Cas murmured something and shifted again, but Sam caught his hand as it strayed toward the brand. “No, Cas, you can't touch it, remember? We don't know why it isn't getting better, but you can't keep scratching at it.”

The angel screwed up his face in frustration and tried to roll away from Sam, but the movement pulled on his wounds and he sagged back down into the blankets.

Dean propped himself up on his elbows on the other bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Everything okay?” he called.

“We're good,” Sam replied, resting his hand on Cas's upper arm, one of the few places he was uninjured. Touch always seemed to help when Cas was hurt—like his mind and body became disconnected and he needed the extra sensation to stay grounded. Which, of course, his body and mind weren't really connected. Unless...they didn't really know how his latest resurrection worked. Could Cas even leave his vessel anymore?

Cas shuddered again, and Sam absently rubbed his arm for a few seconds. The angel was damp with sweat, but his skin seemed cooler to the touch. “Dean?”

The older Winchester was already getting out of bed and walking over to the little coffeemaker, but turned around at Sam's voice. “What's wrong?”

“Can you check this? I think his temperature is down.”

Cas made a muted protest as Sam pulled the cold towel away so Dean could rest the back of his hand on Cas's forehead. Dean frowned, moving his hand to Cas's cheek, then his neck, then the bare patch of arm Sam had been touching. “I think you're right.”

“Cas?” Sam leaned over the angel, resting his own hand over his friend's forehead. “Can you still feel the demon blood?”

The angel shuddered. Sam frowned...Cas was doing that a lot. He'd been restless and miserable since they'd brought him to the motel, but now that he was looking Sam could see a slight tremor running through Cas.

“Everything...burning,” Cas whispered.

Dean swore, but Sam frowned. “The demon blood?”

Cas grimaced and his hand strayed to the burn in his side. Sam caught him before he could touch it, but his stomach clenched as he considered something else. “Cas, is it the brand that's burning you?”

The angel nodded. Sam gently folded the blankets back to look at the brand and bit back his own curse. It was still painfully red and white and swollen, and he could feel the heat radiating off of it, but it was the faint red lines spiderwebbing out into Cas's skin that had him recoiling in shock.

Some part of the spell was still active. Something was leeching away Cas's power.

* * *

Shit.

Dean turned away, rubbing a hand down his face. They just couldn't catch a break, could they?

“I think the demon blood was just covering up the other symptoms,” Sam was saying, tucking the blanket back up under Cas's arms and replacing the cold towel on his forehead. “I'm gonna check the spell book.”

Dean barely nodded, taking Sam's seat back at Cas's side. Purgatory was one place he wouldn't mind forgetting, or the horrible months that followed. “Any ideas, Cas?”

The angel shifted, feverish blue eyes staring up into Dean's. “B-break it.”

Dean sat back, staring down at his knees in thought. Was that why Cas kept clawing at himself? Trying to break the lines of the sigil? “So what do we need to do?”

Cas whimpered and tried to shove the blankets down, but Dean caught his hands to stop him. “Just tell me, buddy. You're in no shape to do it yourself.”

“Cut the...the lines.”

Yeah, he was afraid of that. “That's gonna hurt like hell, Cas,” Dean murmured, brushing back the angel's sweat-dampened hair, like he had done for Sammy countless times. The burn looked bad enough...he couldn't imagine how bad cutting into it would be. “We'd have to use an angel blade, right?”

Cas nodded. He twisted in the blankets, another tremor running through him, and now that Dean was looking for it he felt the surge of heat rush through Cas's body. He peeked under the blanket, and the lines spreading out from the brand were pulsing. They were more like roots from the branding itself than something in Cas's veins.

“Let's make sure there isn't another way first, all right?” Dean dropped the blanket and let his hand rest on top of Cas's for a moment, wishing he hadn't killed those bastards so quickly. He wasn't even sure cutting the lines of the sigil would work at this point—it was almost a living thing, like a parasite eating up the angel's grace.

“So get this,” Sam called from the table, where he had the witch's book opened. It was a creepy thing, bound in some unknown creature's skin, the words written in the dried rust of blood with the occasional leviathan-black splatter. “The brand wasn't dipped in holy oil...it was something called Hel's tincture.”

“What, like something demonic?” Dean crossed the room to stare at the book over his brother's shoulder. Half the of pages were covered in indecipherable runes, the other in a neat, rounded script that didn't belong in a book like this.

“No, Hel with one L. As in the daughter of Loki, ruler of the underworld in Norse mythology. The Vegvisir is one of her symbols.”

“The what?”

“The compass,” Sam gestured to a page in the book. “Hel's tincture is meant to link the sacrifice with purgatory, creating a gateway. Since the brand touched Cas's skin the spell is still active.”

Dean felt sick. “So, what, chompers could just jump out of him at any moment?”

“Well, no,” Sam was flipping through the pages—of course he'd bookmarked the thing, even if they were going to burn it the second they got home. “I destroyed the altar first. It's more likely it started the spell over. Someone would have to do the other four parts of the ritual to open the gate to purgatory.”

That was something, at least. “So what do we do?”

“I have an idea,” Sam started, but a loud sound from the other end of the room caught the brother's attention.

Dean whirled around to find Cas half out of bed, crawling on the floor toward the duffle bag of weapons Dean had left against the wall. “The hell you think you're doing?” Dean shouted. He rushed over, trying to find a way to restrain Cas without hurting him.

“It n-needs to be broken,” Cas whispered. “I can...I can....”

“Oh, no, you don't.” Dean finally settled for grabbing Cas under the arms and awkwardly shuffled him back to the bed. “You are not mutilating yourself with an angel blade,” he scolded, settling Cas down and crouching in front of him.

Cas grunted in protest and tried to twist away, but he was weakened enough that Dean could have held him down with one finger. “I have to break it.”

“Cas...” Dean rocked back on his heels, wiping a hand across his face. “Look, man, if it has to be cut at least let me do it, or Sam. You're in no shape to hold a blade.”

The angel started shaking his head but Dean persisted. “I'm not saying we jump right to cutting you open, all right? But you're just gonna hurt yourself worse if you try to do it.”

He held Cas's gaze for a moment, trying to will the angel to accept. Normally something like this would be straightforward—if it was something like a devil's trap, just breaking the outer circle should be enough to break the sigil's power. There seemed to be so much more to this, though. Plus, hurting Cas in his weakened state when his body was already turning into a Leviathan conduit seemed like a really bad idea.

Cas looked away, finally nodding in acceptance. Dean let out a sigh of relief and eased the angel back down against the mattress. “We'll get this, Cas. Sammy already has an idea, right, Sammy?”

Sam, who had stood up from the table but kept his distance as Dean talked the angel down from mutilating himself walked forward with the book held open in one hand. “There's a lot in here about the magic's connection to Purgatory and the Leviathan,” he began. “Most importantly, Hel's tincture actually has leviathan venom as one of its ingredients.”

Dean frowned. “They had venom?”

The younger Winchester shrugged. “It's not a complete translation. Could mean saliva or blood, or even a plant from Purgatory cultivated by a Leviathan.”

With a roll of his eyes, Dean pushed away from the bed to stand up. “Can we skip the biology lesson?”

“Sorry,” Sam glanced from Dean to Cas with an apologetic grimace, then flipped through the book to another page. “It mostly just says that the venom embodies the essence of the Leviathan, like it has some of the same properties. So, it might be a long shot...but we could try borax.”

Dean looked back at Cas, turning the thought over in his head for a moment. Pouring a caustic cleaning agent on an open wound was usually a terrible idea, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than carving up said open wound with an angel blade. “Cas?”

Cas had closed his eyes, his hands in fists on either side of him as he fought the urge to claw at the brand in his side, to tear out the horrible magic eating him up and burning him out. “I don't know,” he said, voice rougher than usual from pain and exhaustion.

“I think we should try it,” Sam said, resting one hand on Cas's knee. “We can always try the angel blade if it doesn't work.”

The angel finally nodded, and Sam patted his knee a couple of times before heading out to the Impala where they still kept a bottle of the stuff in case of rogue Leviathan. Dean watched his brother for a second, then turned his attention back to Cas. He was on top of the blankets now, so the brothers could study the brand in his side. The brand itself was only about as big as Dean's palm, but the red lines (roots? Veins?) branching out nearly doubled its size.

Sam came back in the room, bottle in one hand. “I think we could just try a few drops,” he suggested. “See if it reacts.”

With another nod from Cas, Sam settled down on the edge of the bed and gently let a few drops of the borax mixture fall on one edge of the brand.

Cas _screamed_.

* * *

Sam jerked back, nearly dropping the bottle as the bulb in the lamp exploded. Cas was convulsing, arching his back off the bed as the brand began to bubble and smoke. Dean swore, throwing himself over the angel's chest to hold him down. “Sammy! Get his legs!”

The younger Winchester dove forward, wrapping one arm around Cas's knees and holding him down with his body weight. He could hear Dean muttering something, trying to calm Cas down, and as Sam looked up he realized the angel wasn't trying to push Dean away.

He was holding on, knuckles nearly white where his fingers were twisted in Dean's flannel. Eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, teeth clenched as little pained breaths puffed in and out.

“I'm so sorry,” Sam said, realizing he'd probably been saying it in his panic. “God, Cas, I'm sorry. It's okay, I'll wipe it off, we'll keep looking.”

“No,” Castiel hissed out, tipping his head enough for his anguished gaze to meet Sam's. “It's...it's working.”

Sam swallowed, fumbling for a clean rag to wipe away the black, bloody foam that had bubbled up where the borax solution had fallen. It was true...the skin beneath was paler, the burn fading to nothing but a faint impression in the skin. He still felt sick. If three drops had been that bad...

“Maybe a little at a time?” he suggested. Dean was gently extracting himself from Cas's death grip, and paused with one hand on the angel's shoulder to hear his reply.

Cas shook his head, his strength seeming to rally a little now that they had a plan. “Just get it over with.”

Dean met Sam's gaze and pulled a face. “We're not getting that deposit back,” he commented, digging through the pile of towels for a clean one.

“We already weren't when you stole the blanket off the other bed,” Sam retorted. He picked the bottle of borax up and hesitated. “You sure you want to do this all at once?”

“Yes,” Cas nodded as another wave of tremors broke through his body. “It's still...it's d-digging deeper. My grace....”

“Right,” Dean sat back down on the edge of the bed. He'd rolled one of the little hand towels up tightly and held it up for Cas's inspection. “It'll be easier if you have something to bite on.”

Cas stared up at him, but didn't protest. He clenched the towel between his teeth and nodded down at Sam.

Dean leaned across Cas again, one arm behind his head and one across his chest. Cas's hands came up to grab Dean's sleeve, fingers trembling in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries. “Ready?” Dean called over.

Sam swallowed, moving to his own position to secure Castiel's legs. “Here we go.”

He poured the entire bottle on this time. Cas screamed, though it was muffled through the towel, and nearly threw the hunters off despite his weakened state.

Sam found himself chanting apologies again, both arms wrapped around the angel's legs to hold him steady. He could have sworn he heard Dean singing over Cas's struggle, but most of his focus was on the brand.

The smooth lines of the Nordic compass were bubbling up, and now he could smell decay and blood as the mark filled with the black, bloody foam.

But the red, spidery lines were receding. “It's working!” he called up, moving around so he was pinning Cas's legs with one arm and his body in order to wipe the foam away.

It was like watching a sigil being drawn in reverse. First the red lines were pulled in and vanished, then the outer edges of the compass slowly lost their color and definition. It was, Sam realized, exactly like poison being drawn from a wound. Whatever Hel's tincture and the Vegvisir brand had done to Cas was being sloughed out.

Maybe the borax simply killed off the Leviathan's connection and Cas's grace was able to purge the rest.

Cas went limp, the black foam giving way to a fresh trickle of blood before that, too, stopped.

“Cas?”

Dean was backing up, still leaning over the angel but no longer pinning him down. Sam wiped the rest of the foam away, pleased to see that the entire brand was now nothing more than faded red lines. In fact, as he watched it, the lines faded into nothing to leave behind the smooth, unblemished skin of an angel.

“It's done,” Cas panted. Sam joined his brother at the head of the bed, relieved at the sight of the worst of Cas's injuries fading—though nothing was healing completely except the brand. “Can we go home now?”

Sam couldn't help a relieved chuckle when Cas's voice took on a plaintive tone. “Of course we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter will hopefully be up by this weekend. Nothing but fluff, healing, and family time ahead. Just an entire chapter of Cas wrapped up in a big fuzzy blanket while Dean makes him too much hot cocoa and Sam downloads every bee documentary in existence. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your kind words. There is just a lot going on in my life, and you all mean so much to me.


	4. Recovery: Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally at the end! Thanks for sticking with me through the last couple weeks!

They left nowhere, Ohio, just after sunrise. Cas was tucked in the back seat, wrapped in the blanket that Dean had thoughtfully taken from the hotel, fast asleep after the trauma of the last forty-eight hours. They were all exhausted, but once hotel management had started investigating the light bulbs and appliances that had blown all the way down their arm of the horseshoe it was time to move.

“Is he snoring?” Sam asked, his voice low to keep from disturbing Cas.

The angel was leaning against the door, face pressed to the window, glass fogging up with every one of his snuffly little angel snores. “Dude crashes hard,” Dean commented. “Think he's on the mend?”

“Yeah. Well, I hope so.” Sam turned back around, staring out his own window for a minute. “Dean...did you see...?”

“Which part?” Dean cut his brother off, voice sharp. He'd seen all of Cas's injuries. The hand-shaped bruises on his forearms from someone holding him down. The name carved in his back. The awful, blue-black bruises just above one of his kidneys.

“He's still not healing.”

Yeah, that too. Except he was healing, just very slowly (for Cas...for a human it would still be a miraculous speed). The spell had shredded his grace, then Cas had exhausted whatever he had left to knit together the worst of his broken body. “He'll get there.”

“I'm just worried,” Sam admitted. “What if we missed something?”

“Cas said the spell was broken,” Dean said.

“We've never seen magic like this before,” Sam argued. He had that book in his hands. Dean would have chucked it out the window miles before if it wasn't just safer to burn it back home. “I don't know what kind of damage it could have done.”

“Well, we'll figure it out,” Dean glanced back up in the mirror. “We always do.”

* * *

An hour into Indiana, Dean pulled off at a gas station. “Bitch. Fuel,” he slapped Sam on the chest, waking his younger brother up.

“Why me?” Sam groused, already piling out of the car.

“Because I have to piss,” Dean retorted, turning around in the seat to shake Cas by the shoulder. “Hey, man, you awake?”

The bruises on Cas's face had faded considerably, though they were still obvious to anyone giving him more than a brief glance, and the hunter hoped that meant the rest of his body was healing as well. “Dean?”

“Rise and shine!” Dean beamed. “How's your ankle?”

The angel grunted and flexed his foot, trying to fight himself free of the blanket. “I believe it is healed.”

“That's great. Well, I gotta take a leak,” Dean gestured at the gas station with his head. “Wanna come along?”

Cas stared at Dean in puzzlement, tilting his head. “I do not require urination, Dean.”

“No, man,” Dean shook his head with a chuckle. “I know that. I just thought you might want to stretch your legs before we get back on the road.”

“Oh.” Cas looked down at his legs, then over to the station's mini-mart. They'd never found out where Ophelia's men had bagged Cas, and for a split second Dean was afraid it had been some place like this. “I...suppose this vehicle can be confining.”

Dean chuckled and rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. “I'll let that slide 'cause Baby knows you're still a little loopy. Come on, man.”

Cas finally nodded, unwrapping himself from the blanket to follow Dean into the station. The angel was wearing some of the spare clothes Dean kept on-hand for him—jeans and a henley that was a size too big on Dean, which made it ideal to wear over bandages.

The hunter had mixed feelings about what Sam called the “Cas bag”. Yeah, sure, it came in handy...but Dean had been putting it together while his friend was human. It had started simple enough—a nice shirt in case Cas got a real date, some day-to-day clothes, and a set of plaid pajamas since Cas had been fascinated that humans kept special clothing just to sleep in. But things had gone south with the Gadreel thing, then Cas had his grace back, then the Mark, and Dean had just kept the bag in his trunk and slowly added to it.

No one ever needed to know it had started life as a “'Steve' bag”.

Dean finished up in the bathroom and headed out to find Cas in the store, easily spotting Sammy at the coffeemaker filling up three cups. Cas was in the candy aisle, squinting down at the little bright packages. “Find something?” Dean asked pausing to snag a few flavors of beef jerky for the road.

“How does one 'taste the rainbow', Dean?”

“What?” Dean sidled up to Cas and looked down at the package in his friend's hands. “You mean to tell me you never tried Skittles?”

Cas shrugged. “The thought never occurred to me.”

“All those months you were human and you didn't try candy.”

“I had other things on my mind, Dean.”

Dean held his hands up in surrender, but snagged the pack from Cas's hands plus a few other flavors, and some peanut M&Ms for good measure. “Right. Taste test time.”

“But I'll only taste the molecules,” Cas protested, trailing Dean up to the counter where Sam was already waiting with the coffee, bitch-face firmly in place.

“They're, like, 95% chemical anyway,” Dean called back, slapping the packages on the counter. “Cas has never had Skittles.”

Sam just shook his head as the cashier bagged up the candy and beef jerky. “Do you really think that's the right thing to give him right now?”

“What? Everyone likes Skittles!”

“I don't.”

“Okay,” Dean stuck a finger in Sam's face as the younger Winchester paid the cashier. “Everyone _cool_ likes Skittles.”

“And what if Cas doesn't like Skittles?” Sam called after him, juggling the three cups of coffee until Cas took one out of his hands.

“He'll like them,” Dean replied, sliding back behind the steering wheel. “Trust me, Sammy.”

Sam shook his head and climbed in the backseat, leaving a bewildered Cas to take the front. “Sam?” the angel asked as Sam passed the blanket out.

'The view is better up there,” Sam explained, waving his hand. “Besides, it's my turn to nap.”

Finally, Cas hesitantly climbed into the front seat and awkwardly tucked the blanket around himself with one hand—until Dean rescued the coffee that very nearly dumped all over Baby's dashboard so that the angel could properly secure the blanket in place. “You still cold?” Dean asked as Cas took the coffee back with a murmur of thanks.

Cas shrugged. “It will get better.”

That was all he said, any time they asked about his injuries. Dean sighed and shared a glance with Sam through the rearview mirror. It was obvious, now, that the younger Winchester was hoping his older brother could get Cas to open up more about how he was feeling, but as Dean pulled back on the road and Cas seemed to shuffle himself down in his blanket he wasn't so sure.

Well. Plan Skittles, then.

“Hey, here,” Dean tossed one of the packages at the angel. “We'll start with the original—that one's the best any way.”

Cas stared down at the bright red package, running the tips of his fingers across the letters. “Dean...”

“Nope. You're trying them.”

“But Dean...”

“How do you know angels can't taste Skittles?”

Sam snorted up a mouthful of coffee, wiping his hand under his chin. “Dean, come on, he doesn't have to.”

“You stay out of this!” Dean made a vaguely threatening gesture into the mirror toward Sam. “Cas. Eat.”

The angel let out a long-suffering sigh and tore the little package open, shaking a few small candies into his hand. “Should I sort them by color?”

“Nope. Toss 'em all in.”

“But how will I accurate classify the taste?”

“Dude,” Dean shook his head, holding his hand out for Cas to give him a few candies. “Trust me. They're better when the flavors blend together.”

Cas screwed up his face and popped the Skittles into his mouth. Dean let him chew for a few minutes, glancing over to see the angel's expression changing from annoyance to disgust.

“Well?” Dean demanded.

“They taste like chemicals,” Cas finally said, washing down what little he had eaten with a mouthful of coffee. “Ugh, chemicals and wax.”

Sam, of course, burst out laughing. “So, Dean, does this mean Cas isn't cool either?”

“Shut up,” Dean tossed the rest of the bag of Skittles back at Sammy. “Come on, man, nothing?”

Cas shuddered, pushing the bag from the gas station a little bit closer to Dean's leg. “And humans eat those for fun?”

“Whatever,” Dean shook his head, pulling out a package of peanut M&Ms. “Okay, you'd better not diss these.”

The angel tried to cower away from Dean, but only managed to make it as far as the passenger door as Dean had reached highway speeds. “Dean...”

“Cas. Eat.”

* * *

The road leading away from Lebanon was dark when Sam finally turned the Impala down the last stretch toward home. Dean had swapped out for the back seat a few hours before, still a little sulky after his taste test hadn't gone as planned (Cas had valiantly tried to like the peanut M&Ms for Dean's sake, but it was obvious the angel was still only tasting molecules. And the beef jerky had been thrown out the window when Cas starting naming the individual body parts molded and glued together to make a questionable meat product). Cas was asleep again, still shifting around restlessly like he couldn't get comfortable, blanket tucked up to his shoulders.

Sometimes these calls were a little too close.

Dean stirred as soon as Sam pulled into the bunker's garage, shuffling around to cram his feet back in his boots without even bitching about how badly Sam was parking the Impala (his parking was fine, but that would never deter his brother). “Cas out again?”

“Yeah,” Sam leaned over to gently shake Cas by the shoulder. The angel murmured something and curled away from Sam, smudging his face into the window. Dean's long-suffering sigh in the back made Sam grin a little—his brother hated when people smudged the windows, but Cas was getting a free pass this time because he'd been so badly injured.

“Cas?” Sam leaned closer, gently pulling the angel away from the seat. Cas gave a half-hearted protest and tried to push Sam away, but seemed to forget his arms were under the blanket and they just kind of flopped at him. “Dean, he's bleeding.”

Dean was out of the car and opening the passenger-side door in a few seconds, easily catching the angel as Cas half-fell on top of him. “Dammit, Cas,” Dean whispered, eyeing the spreading stain on the blanket. “How long has this been going on?”

“He's not coherent,” Sam replied, coming around to Dean's side to help him ease the angel to his feet. “I thought he was just sleeping.”

Something of Sam's distress must have showed on his face, as Dean just set his shoulder under Cas's and shook his head. “Not your fault, Sammy. Let's just get him somewhere comfortable.”

Sam nodded. “Infirmary?”

Dean pulled a face as they shuffled toward the door to the bunker. “Never thought we'd be spoiled for choice,” he commented. “Yeah, we can start there. He needs a real bed to recover, though.”

“Agreed.” Not that the beds in the infirmary were bad...but Sam could still feel Cas shivering through the blanket as they made their way down the hall, and even if the bunker had crappy central heat they could get individual rooms pretty comfortable.

“...Dean?”

“Oh, now he wakes!” Dean gave a snort, depositing Cas on one of the beds of the infirmary. “Why didn't you tell us you were bleeding again, man?”

Cas blinked owlishly up at him, then craned his neck around trying to see his own back. “It's not important,” he finally said. “It will get better.”

“Cas,” Dean's said, his voice sharp with irritation. Sam stepped in, literally getting between his brother and the angel.

“I thought you were going to let us help you?” he asked, gently peeling the blanket away. At least the blood was still damp, so nothing was sticking to Castiel's back.

The angel's shoulders dropped and he stared down at his hands as Sam pulled the henley away from his back, making a dismayed sound in his throat at the state of the bandages. “Cas, what happened? It looks like you tore a few stitches.”

“It will get better.”

“Cas...” Sam pulled back, studying his friend for a moment. Cas wouldn't make eye contact, focusing his gaze on the fingers lying limply in his lap.

A tear splashed on one of Cas's hands.

“Oh, man,” Sam gingerly sat on the bed and pulled the angel against him, relieved a little when Cas brought his hands up enough to wrap in Sam's shirt. “It's okay, man,” Sam wrapped one arm around Cas's shoulders above the wounds in his back and rested the other on the angel's knee. “It will get better, but maybe we can help you.”

He felt the bed dip as Dean sat on Cas's other side, the older Winchester's emotional constipation for once letting him show some sympathy.

“I can't...I don't understand.”

Sam shared a look with Dean and closed his eyes, the hand on Cas's shoulder sliding up to gently press the angel's head against Sam's chest. “Cas, what you went through was traumatic. It's okay if you're not okay yet.”

Cas just shook his head, though he didn't try to throw Sam off, and now Dean had his hand on Cas's back rubbing in slow, gentle circles. “I keep seeing her,” he whispered.

“Me too.” Even Dean looked surprised he had spoken up, but the older Winchester continued. “I keep seeing that damn clearing, and those guys holding you down and that bitch raising the iron and I just...” Dean shook his head and looked away. “Sometimes I don't make the shot, man.”

The angel shifted against Sam for a moment, and one hand slipped free to reach for the older Winchester. Dean gave a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob and took the hand, wrapping his other arm around Cas's shoulders until the three of them were sitting in an awkward embrace.

“It will get better,” Cas whispered, like a mantra.

“Yes,” Sam replied, hand tightening on Cas's knees even as he felt Dean squeeze the angel's shoulders. “Yes, it will get better.”

* * *

In the end, they'd tucked Castiel into Sam's room for its close access to the rest of the bunker. Dean had disappeared a few hours ago on some mysterious errands, so Sam had queued up the backlog of documentaries he'd been meaning to watch. Castiel had always found the human point of view on the world fascinating, even when it was on their own history.

They were deep into a program about the game of chess and its development through the Asian world (Castiel had never played chess, though he was aware of it, and Sam had been overjoyed at the thought of playing against an actual military strategist) when Dean returned.

Castiel was tucked into Sam's bed, propped up on pillows to ease his tender back and draped in enough blankets to finally, _finally_ ease the aching cold Ophelia's spell had left behind. Sam was next to him, sitting on top of some of the blankets, though the hunter had offered to move to a chair if his presence made Castiel uncomfortable.

It was nice. Having good company and pleasant conversation while he recovered. He wished that this was not such a novelty, though when he expressed this aloud his human friend had looked pained, so Castiel did not bring it up again.

“What the hell are you watching?”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam paused the program, glaring up at his brother. “I don't interrupt cowboy movie night, you don't get to make fun of my documentaries.”

“Yeah, but cowboys are awesome. Chess is for nerds.”

“Actually, Dean,” Castiel interjected. “In many areas of the world, chess masters are revered as...”

“Save it,” Dean held his free hand up, the other cradling a mug of something that smelled like chicken. “I brought you something to eat.”

Castiel hesitated, eyeing the glass reluctantly. “Dean....”

“It's chicken stock,” the older Winchester insisted, nudging the mug toward Castiel. “Just three ingredients: chicken, salt, water.”

Castiel tried again. “The molecules....”

“Look, man, you're low on juice, right? Maybe you're not tasting molecules, maybe you're tasting something bigger.”

Sam sat forward with an interested expression. “Like the individual ingredients? That could be why you hated the candy so much, Cas, it was a lot of artificial junk.”

The angel still hesitated, studying the mug in Dean's hand, not wanting to repeat his earlier attempts to eat.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Look, man, I bought...it's _free range_ chicken, _sea_ salt, and _distilled_ water. I did everything I could to make it without a trace of chemicals.”

Well, if Dean had gone to that much trouble, it might be rude not to at least try it. Castiel took the mug and gave a tentative sip.

It was...not entirely unpleasant. Still too many variables to be an enjoyable taste, but much like coffee this could be something he could adjust to. As Dean had said, the chicken stock was largely free of chemicals and additives and the remaining molecular components were almost pleasant.

“Well?”

Castiel closed his eyes, letting the taste settle on his tongue for a moment. “It's not entirely unpleasant.”

“Hey!” Dean patted him on the shoulder and settled down in the chair next to the bed. “I'll take that as a win!”

The angel slowly nodded, taking another sip and letting the warmth of the broth settle in his stomach. He was unsure whether the comfort he was feeling came from the food itself, or from the idea of Dean carefully preparing it to be as palatable to an angel as possible. Castiel leaned back in the nest of pillows Sam had built as the younger Winchester started the documentary again, despite Dean's half-hearted protests.

“Maybe Sammy can hit up that farmer's market he likes so much,” Dean suggested a few moments later. “They got all kinds of organic shit up there, we could try some other soups or something.”

“Oh, so when Cas wants organic it's okay, but when I want organic I'm embarrassing you?” Sam teased from Castiel's other side.

“Yeah, because he's cool.”

“He didn't even like Skittles, Dean.”

“Shut up,” Dean reached behind Castiel to thump his brother on the arm. “Just watch your checkers movie or whatever.”

“It's chess, Dean.”

Castiel closed his eyes, letting the brothers' fond bickering wash over him. It was comforting to both mind and body, easing the aches left by his remaining wounds and soothing the frayed edges of his grace.

“Cas,” Dean's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Castiel looked over at the hunter. Dean tapped the mug meaningfully. “Eat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Keep an eye out for the Twelve Days of Fictmas beginning December 13th, and I might have the first of the 100 themes posted soon as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle with me. If you read Whumptober you might remember my notes about my sick cat. He passed away on Monday, so it's been kind of a rough week. I would appreciate any comments or criticisms, as always, but I'm a little fragile right now so please be kind.


End file.
